


i love you though you hurt me so (now i’m gonna pack my things and go)

by TooManyGaysTooLittleTime



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, Fake/Pretend Relationship, I’m gonna be fair and warn you here. The second chapter ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, POV Third Person, Rival designers Daensa, also please go outside, dany or sansa stans dni
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:40:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24773281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime/pseuds/TooManyGaysTooLittleTime
Summary: Daenerys Targaryen and Sansa Stark, despite never having met, have been rival designers for years. When they do meet, the consequences are quite unexpected...on hiatus until someone leaves a comment on chapter 2 please i need the serotonin
Relationships: Jeyne Poole & Sansa Stark, Sansa Stark/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 4
Kudos: 36





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is off an au prompt bot on twitter, it was ‘rivalling designers AU’ and i took it and ran with it
> 
> here you go daensa fans <3 
> 
> title from [tainted love by soft cell](https://open.spotify.com/track/0cGG2EouYCEEC3xfa0tDFV?si=IPrP2OH3SwCJoB7Tsc20ew)
> 
> also would someone please explain to me why i am writing so many multi chapter fics please and thank you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is determined to beat Daenerys’ collection, but how far will she go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this will be short chapter-wise, but pretty long in terms of word count, so buckle up

* * *

* * *

The models strut down the runway, exuding poise and confidence dressed in Sansa’s signature elegant suit jackets, structured trousers and heeled boots. Cameras flash, capturing look after look.

Sansa pushes her sunglasses further back on the bridge of her nose and leans into her chair, arms and legs crossed. She is an intimidating aura in her black and white suit, in contrast to the enthusiastic Jeyne Poole perched next to her. Jeyne’s hands are shaking as she takes shot after shot of the models, an indelible grin on her face. Normally Sansa wouldn’t have taken her along to a fashion event, her friend’s excitement at anything fashion-adjacent being exhausting sometimes, but she had deemed it enough of a special occasion that Jeyne could come.

The occasion in question? Completely and utterly knocking Daenerys Targaryen’s collection flat.

Sansa’s ultimate goal has always been to be seen as better than Targaryen: she has dominated the fashion industry for years with successive collections that had become steadily darker in colour and more powerful in aura. Though she’s never met the other woman in person, Sansa has read perhaps far too many articles about her that she knows more about Daenerys than her boyfriend (Daario Naharis, seven years her senior) does. It has developed into an obsession, although Sansa will not admit it to herself. 

Her final number is being modelled by Arya, her sister, in a rare act of altruism from her. Sansa thinks that it is one of her finest creations: the silver embroidery worked across the black velvet jacket picks out images of wolves, and the sheer blouse underneath allows skin to peek through. The trousers are cut above the ankle and striped down the side with images of daggers — a nod to Arya’s influence, as her sister has a historical roleplaying hobby. Arya’s walk in heels is purposeful and the red soles of the stilettos are reflected on the mirrored catwalk. 

Arya is a born model, Sansa has to admit: a strong and intimidating walk, without a single wobble in the heels. She pulls off the design well, too. 

The final strut is accompanied by the loudest applause Sansa has heard for her show yet, and the rest of her models walk out to join Arya. She claps along with the rest, exhilarated on the outside. Internally, she is just as overjoyed — but for a different reason.

Daenerys Targaryen won’t come close to the fame that she will achieve after this.

* * *

Sansa scowls and flings the magazine across the table. “Half of the interview is shitting on me and the other half is self-promotion. I hate her.” she declares.

Arya’s lip twists in amusement. “You say that all the time, but I’ve never seen any evidence of it.”

Sansa leans back and puts her heeled feet up on the shiny black-marble table, kicking away copies of _Vogue_ and _Fashion Weekly_. “Of course I hate her. She’s more famous than I am. Steals the space where my collections should be.”

“You have a massive ego,” Bran observes from his seat on the other leather sofa.

In response, Sansa snorts. “You’ve got to, if you want to make it in fashion.”

Arya picks up the magazine with Daenerys on the cover and starts leafing through, intent on finding the interview. She follows the lines of text with her finger and leans in to the magazine — Arya is far too stubborn to invest in help for her partial blindness, preferring to keep her eyesight as it is. She looks up and thrusts the interview in front of Sansa’s face, plain, unpainted nail pointing out a section of text. 

“See, look, she isn’t egotistical,” Arya points out, “and she’s bigger than you.”

“It’s an interview,” Sansa says, as if that explains everything. “Everyone lies to make themselves look better in interviews.”

“Wonder how many times you have,” Arya quips. Sansa’s expression sours.

“I don’t get interviews, she does.”

Arya sits up from the arm of the sofa and pokes a finger into Sansa’s face. “Alright, Sansa Stark, that’s enough bitchiness for today. You have a problem with that girl — and I don’t think it’s just about her being more famous than you. You require an intervention.” 

Sansa sullens. “Doubt it.” She plays with her red hair, sticking a finger into it and twisting it around into loose ringlets.

“Whatever. I vote that we go meet up with the rest of the family and and decide what we do then, because I don’t think anyone other than Ned and Cat can get some sense into you.”

“Fine,” Sansa replies, knowing full well that she can’t dissuade Arya from her idea. “I’ll call the Rainbow Room, book a Sunday brunch.” 

Bran shakes his head slightly. “I never get used to you flinging your wealth around like that.”

“It’s fashion, Bran dear,” Sansa says imperiously. “Wealth is the entire point of it.”

* * *

Sansa dresses for the occasion appropriately, long black coat (she’d been accused of copying Daenerys on that design several times) covering a flowing red shirt and slim black pants. Her stilettos make barely any noise, even on the hard, polished-to-a-shine floor. She is generous with warm smiles, tossing them liberally to those whose heads turn as she passes their tables. She understands fans — she was one herself, once. Knows what to do to make them happy.

To Sansa’s annoyance, the rest of the family is early, which means that she is automatically late, even if she did come at the appointed time. Still, she smiles warmly upon seeing them, and gives a nod to the waiter who is standing at their table. Robb hands her a menu, and Sansa flicks through the appetisers.

Their server takes orders from the rest of the Starks, and when he gets to her, Sansa orders the seasonal greens (she’d been a vegetarian for a few years by now) and a glass of Pinot Noir. He bows and goes to fetch their orders.

She scans the table, trying to gauge the mood of each member of her family. Robb seems happy enough, looking through the menu; Arya has her phone out under the table; Bran drums his fingers on the table, menu at the side; Rickon is slouched across the surface, head on his hand; and her parents are sharing a menu, peering at various options. It seems that none of them have turned their focus to Sansa’s problems yet, and she is thankful for that, at least.

Their drinks are brought. Notably, only Sansa and Catelyn choose alcohol, Pinot Noir for her and Riesling for Cat. Sansa knocks back a fairly large amount before starting her appetiser, and finishes it halfway through her food. She doesn’t notice Robb’s concerned eyes as she orders a second without blinking.

They decide on their main courses and the server leaves to give their orders to the kitchen, leaving the Stark family with time on their hands. At first Robb tells them about how his job in politics is going: his campaign, Sansa gathers, is succeeding, largely due to the _help_ of one Theon Greyjoy. The way he talks about him makes Sansa wonder if it’s only work that is happening between the two of them, but she keeps her suspicions silent. Bran talks about how his coding is going, and Arya about her band. Rickon updates everyone on how school is going (perfectly, just as Robb’s school had gone, just as Sansa’s had gone. Just as every member of the Stark family had.) 

Sansa swallows as all of her family’s eyes then turn to her. She wraps her fingers around the stem of her glass and takes a swig, intent on getting into that sweet tipsy state. Putting it down, she folds her hands onto the table and starts, “My Fashion Week show sank from most of the major news sites — thanks, Daenerys Targaryen — but the few that did review mine as well had good things to say about it. Especially Arya’s modelling debut.” The chorus of ooh’s and aah’s that follow divert attention from Sansa for a few minutes. Nonetheless, their eyes return back to her like eager owls, waiting, searching, judging.

“And my second stint as brand ambassador for Wella is going well, I’m making good money from it.” _And not wearing any of its hair products_ , she thinks but does not say. 

“Nice to hear you’re making good money,” Ned says. Whatever he is going to say next, however, is drowned out as Arya proclaims their food to be approaching. Sansa accepts her celery root and sunchokes gratefully, pausing before eating to allow Ned to say grace. She closes her eyes in a performative gesture, then starts eating immediately once their eyes are open.

The food is good, not as good as eating actual gold, but still good. She gets through another three glasses of wine during it, enough that she starts to lean back in her chair and pay less attention to ensuring her neatness. Her family finish a little after her, and it is decided that they will skip on dessert. Sansa doesn’t blame them: she prefers salt over sugar every day, wine over both of them.

She pays the bill for all of them, and they get in the elevator to leave, Bran’s wheelchair not letting them take the steps. Sansa leans against the window, blocking off the view of New York City to others in the lift just because she can. One of her buttons on her suit jacket has come undone, but Sansa doesn’t fix it. 

The elevator dings as it reaches the bottom floor, ending the silent elevator ride. Robb departs immediately, citing a ride outside, and Ned and Cat take a cab with Rickon, leaving Bran and Arya to find their own ways home.

Arya pulls out her phone. “I’ll call Gendry,” she says, “get him to pick me up. You can come with me too, Bran, if you want.” 

Bran nods. “That would be good.”

Arya puts her phone to her ear. “Hey, Gendy, this is Arya. Can you come pick me and Bran up from Rockefeller? Yeah, family stuff. Okay,” she says as she ends the call. The sound of an engine fifteen minutes later prompts Arya to push Bran out of the lobby.

Sansa’s apartment is too far to walk to without getting blisters, and she doesn’t really feel like a cab. Most of them would tattle on her drunkenness, or so she thinks. She is going to contact her chauffeur when she looks up to see none other than Daenerys Targaryen entering, on the arm of Daario Naharis. At first Sansa is surprised, then positively spiking for a fight. When they enter, she immediately rushes up to them and accosts Daenerys.

“Miss Daenerys,” she hisses, “you owe me an apology.” 

For someone who has recently been called upon by an obviously drunk Sansa Stark, Daenerys is taking it remarkably well. “You’re drunk, Miss Stark. You should get home,” she says. 

“Yeah, the home that’s ruined because I see your bloody face everywhere. Do you know how much I hate your stupid face? It reminds me of all the things I can never have.” 

“Well, you’ll certainly never have them if you continue acting in this way. Receptionist?” Daenerys calls, pointing at Sansa. “Please take this woman out and ensure that she gets home.”

“Fuck you, I can find my own way home,” Sansa spits, by now unsteady on her feet. 

Daenerys’s smile is surprisingly caring for the situation. “Calm down, Miss Stark. It is simply drunkenness. You will feel better in the morning.” 

“Drunk because of you,” Sansa mumbles as the receptionist takes hold of her arm to escort her to a cab.

Whether Daenerys hears it, though, she cannot say. 

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter: dany’s POV on all of this, plus some conversation


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa is forced to desperate measures to uphold her reputation — even if it includes working with her longtime rival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to everyone who kudos’d and commented! all of you are awesome people
> 
> and yeah... it was meant to be dany’s pov but sometimes the story will not go along with your plans

* * *

* * *

Sansa rubs at her eyes, still caked with makeup, and rolls onto her side to glance at her phone on the bedside table. Its screen illuminates over and over again, and it takes her a few moments to realise what is going on. 

Groaning, she picks it up and scrolls through her notifications. She gathers that overnight, the topic of her and Daenerys’s rivalry has quickly become trending — so many posts have tagged her Twitter and Instagram that she doubts the apps will work when she opens them. It’s crazy how many there are: there must be over a thousand.

Instead of calling her PR manager, she unlocks her phone and loads the news. A spiral appears next to the signal for her WiFi, and she frowns. The page eventually loads, and she scrolls through the stories with ‘Sansa Stark’ in them.

So. Goddamn. Many. She blinks and rubs her eyes to make sure that she’s not dreaming. When her phone screen doesn’t change, when she doesn’t wake up, she groans heavily. 

Sansa rolls further onto her side, ignoring the pressure on her arm, and clicks on one story from some tabloid that she’s probably seen before but can’t remember. Wiping sleep out of her eyes, she focuses on the harsh blue light of the screen and the words upon it. Scanning the article, she picks up a few things: namely, that the entire world seems to think that she’s a bitchy, petty rival to Dany and a woman too narcissistic for her own good. Sansa puts her phone down and slumps backwards until she’s sprawled out over her mattress. She brings some of the fabric of her sheets up towards her line of vision and twists it, hooking her finger inside and wrapping it around. It helps to calm her, reduces her world to the sensations of sheets pulled too tightly around her finger and the wrinkles of the fabric. 

Part of the reason that Sansa loves fashion so dearly is the simple task of making the clothes — seeing a sketch on paper slowly turn into a reality that she can touch, run her fingers over, feel against her body. There’s an ease to the way that the sewing machine hums under her usage, something meditative in the task of adjusting an awry shoulder-pad or shortening the hem of a trouser. 

Inevitably, thinking about fashion brings her back to the topic of exactly what she could do to mend her relationship with Daenerys Targaryen, in the public eye at least. While Sansa usually overflows with ideas for new clothes, her creativity seems to have dropped along with the Internet’s general opinion of her, and she resigns herself to opening up her inundated email inbox, hoping that Jeyne, her PA, PR manager and general lifesaver would have some thoughts on the matter.

* * *

Sansa has decided that she truly hates paparazzi: not only the hobbyists, not only the professionals paid to get snapshots of her looking like a slob. She hates all paparazzi unequivocally.

Jeyne notices Sansa’s angry glare at the gathering of them near the coffee shop, and gently places her hand over Sansa’s to bring her back to the matter at hand. “Mending your relationship with Dany Targaryen, hm? Well, there’s quite a bit to do in this particular area.” She passes Sansa her iPad, an array of screenshots from various sources gracing the screen. Sansa frowns once she sees them, staring at the tablet in her lap.

“I don’t remember saying half of these,” she says as she hands the iPad back to Jeyne. Frustration passes over the other woman’s face for a moment before she returns to careful neutrality.

“You were probably under the influence at the time — your proclivity for alcohol is well-noted, and I suspect many of the reporters who took these had waited for you to become drunk before bringing up the topic.”

Sansa’s cheeks burn at the suggestion of alcoholism. Yes, she knows that she drinks more alcohol in general than the average person, but she dislikes the topic being brought into the open. 

“Maybe,” she admits grudgingly. She takes a long sip of her coffee (black, no sugar, no cream — completely free of any cluttered details, much like her chosen outfit for the day) as Jeyne starts listing the many ways that reporting generally has tried to show her in a negative light.

“But your very public outburst puts us in a difficult position, makes us unable to simply release a statement chalking it up to media slander. We’ll need you to demonstrate genuine repentance.”

Sansa rolls her eyes. “Just tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

Jeyne drums her fingers on the table nervously. “In this case, you can’t type out an apology on your notes app, screenshot it, and put it on your Instagram. Paparazzi needs to be able to see that you’re making an attempt to clear up the rift between the two of you.” The rift that Sansa had created, Jeyne mercifully does not say. 

“Seriously, Jeyne, I’ll do it. Cut the bullshit and tell me openly.” 

Jeyne swallows and looks down into her coffee. “Daario Naharis and Daenerys have broken up.”

“So?” Sansa flicks her hand into the air flippantly. “I don’t give a fuck about her love life.”

“It will be much easier for the public to accept your apology if we frame it within the context of a romantic relationship between Daenerys and yourself, as that would indicate that she has forgiven you.”

Sansa chokes and nearly slams her coffee down. “Please tell me—you don’t want me to—you can’t think—I’m supposed to be _dating_ her?”

Jeyne calmly sips her coffee, which has an obscene amount of cream and milk in it. “Do you have a better idea?”

Chastened, Sansa’s gaze falls to the ground. “No...”

“Well then,” Jeyne declares as she finishes her coffee and gets up, pulling the messenger bag over her shoulder. (It’s one of Arianne Martell’s designs, evident from the large sun embroidered onto the flap.) 

Sansa follows her lead, swallowing the remainder of her coffee and pushing her chair back into the table. “But... you seriously can’t expect me to be dating her...”

Jeyne lifts her eyebrow up her forehead. “Sansa, this is the best and the easiest way to save your reputation. And does it need saving,” she adds darkly.

She stares at the paparazzi across the street who think they’re being so subtle, and shoots them a dirty glare. If the entire world has decided that she’s an entitled bitch, she might as well use this opportunity to act like one and do what she’s wanted to do to the paps for years.

* * *

Sansa takes deep breaths to psych herself up for the inevitable meeting, and turns to Jeyne as her hand wanders to the knocker. “Are you completely, utterly sure that this is the only way?”

The other woman purses her lips. “Other ways are possible, but this is the fastest and easiest.”

“Okay, then,” Sansa says. She lifts her hand to the knocker (in the shape of a dragon, fancy) and raps several times. Peering through the glass windows, which refract the view inside the house, she notices a woman hurrying to the door. Sansa clasps her hands in front of her and attempts to look more professional than she had when drunk.

Daenerys Targaryen opens the door, dressed in a black silken robe embroidered with dragons in red thread. Even though Sansa really doesn’t want to be seeing her, she can’t help but admire her rival’s fashion sense.

She eyes Sansa up cautiously, her eyes flicking to Jeyne standing next to her as she leans against her doorframe. Sansa tries not to fidget with her small purse, a direwolf picked out on blue velvet with thick silver stitching.

“While this is a lovely surprise,” Daenerys says, carefully, “I don’t know what could have brought Sansa Stark and—”

“Jeyne Poole,” the woman next to Sansa says quickly, with a little nod.

“Jeyne Poole,” Daenerys agrees, “to my door on a Sunday morning.”

“Oh, you—” Sansa snarls, but is stopped by Jeyne’s firm grip on her wrist. She acquiesces to Jeyne’s unvoiced demand and stops talking, allowing the other woman to give a more civil response than Sansa.

“Why don’t you invite us inside,” Jeyne says mildly, “and we can discuss what brings us here there.”

Daenerys nods, slowly, as if she still hasn’t taken in the fact that her rival is outside her door. She pushes open the door further and holds it open to allow Sansa and Jeyne to go inside. Jeyne goes in first, pulling Sansa along by her wrist.

Once inside, Sansa looks back to see Daenerys shutting the door. The other woman motions at a door ahead of them, prompting them to go through it. Jeyne opens it, leading Sansa in afterwards, and she emerges into a well-lit room, occupied by several sofas and with blankets laid over them. Sansa is surprised that Daenerys’s home is so bohemian and decidedly unlike her collections, but she isn’t given the chance to ask her about it, as Jeyne is pulling her down onto a sofa and Daenerys is sitting on the sofa opposite, leaning forwards with her hands clasped over her knees.

“So,” Daenerys says, her eyes flicking between the two of them. “I’d like to know what is going on.”

Though Daenerys’s eyes betray a glimmer of annoyance, she keeps it in check, and Sansa is once more hit by jealousy at how her rival can keep it all inside. As it is, Sansa finds herself barely able to sit still, constantly hit by an urge to _move_ , but she isn’t sure if she wants to be moving closer, more dangerously, to Daenerys or move further away from her, more safely.

Jeyne is nudging gently at her side, attempting to make her speak, and Sansa turns to scowl at her, face hidden from Daenerys by a curtain of silky red hair. She rests her hands inside the pockets of her black jumpsuit and leans back into the soft, fluffy white cushions of the sofa, trying to convey a sense that she is in control.

“I’m here because _you’re_ going to help _me_ fix up the remnants of my reputation.” Sansa fixes the woman opposite her with a steely glare. “And you’re going to stop irritating me by pretending you don’t know what this is all about.”

“ _Sansa_!” Jeyne chastises.

“Oh, and perhaps you could stop _irritating_ me with how you’re always so _perfect_ , all the time—”

Daenerys simply folds her hands across her lap and waits for Sansa’s tirade to end, infuriatingly patient among everything else. Sansa catches her eye and realises: Daenerys isn’t bored, nor is she not hearing what Sansa is saying. She simply doesn’t understand.

Sansa’s speech breaks off right in the middle, and she pushes herself off the sofa.

“Sansa, what are you doing?” Jeyne calls, her voice high and anxious.

“Going to the bathroom,” Sansa yells back. It’s a blatant and obvious lie—she doesn’t actually need it—but it’s the only way that she can think of to extricate herself from the situation while retaining at least some dignity.

“Upstairs, first door on the left,” Daenerys provides, and Sansa’s heels dig into the plush carpet covering the stairs. The material is so smooth and velvety that she nearly slips on it several times before she reaches the first floor.

The bathroom is smaller than Sansa would have expected from someone with the accumulated wealth of Daenerys, but it feels homely and... nice, surprisingly. Sansa sinks onto the floor, kicking her heels off, and is grateful for the woven bath mat as she curls herself into a ball and buries her face in her hands.

Gods, Sansa has messed it all up with her outburst. They might have gained a chance to repair her reputation if not for the fact that she had insulted Daenerys: now she will have to live with the pressure of one drunken night’s actions for the rest of her career.

Hearing a knock at the door, Sansa stumbles up, tripping over her heels and messing up the bath mat in the process. She straightens her pantsuit so she looks more put-together than she feels, and brushes her hair away from her face and neck before opening the door.

Daenerys’ eyes are anxious, darting over Sansa’s face skittishly. “I only—wanted to see if you were okay,” she says, looking ready to back out at any moment. Her nervousness in Sansa’s presence convinces the other woman to ignore the rivalry between them, in the interests of finding a common ground in their issues.

The Sansa of yesterday would have laughed in the face of anyone who had told her that the next day, she would be in Daenerys Targaryen’s house, and staring into her eyes from the bathroom, no less. However, Sansa is aware that her situation was completely different yesterday, and that now she must accept Daenerys’ help.

She stands aside to allow Daenerys inside. The enclosed space and the nearness of the other woman causes a flush to ripple over Sansa’s face and neck inadvertently. Sansa leans against the wall, attempting to look like the influential fashion designer that she ostensibly _is_ and less like the woman who had been crying on the floor pathetically only minutes before.

Daenerys’ eyes roam around the bathroom before landing on Sansa. A swallow is evident in the bob of Daenerys’ throat before she speaks.

“Sansa, if you wouldn’t mind, I would be amenable to this idea of yours. The pretend relationship,” Daenerys clarifies, folding her arms.

Sansa sticks her tongue against the inside of her cheek and works it around, trying to figure out what to do about this new development. The thought of fake dating Daenerys, on one hand, sends a warm feeling through her chest, but also a shiver of intimidation down her spine. She doesn’t understand why she feels that way, but she finds it difficult to respond, despite knowing that she should reply with her assent.

“Okay,” Sansa settles on, and Daenerys’ eyes light up.

“Really? Great, amazing.” She moves to exit, but spins upon her heel when she notices that Sansa isn’t following. “Are you—”

Sansa flips her hand, leaning back against the wall. Her eyes move to the wall, noting the decorations on the tiles, which are elegantly old-fashioned, and not like she would have expected from Daenerys judging by her collections.

“Just—I think I might need some—practise,” Sansa says, biting her lip nervously. “With—kissing, I mean. I’ve not really—been kissed before.” The words stumble out too fast for her to take them back. Daenerys’ smile, however, is understanding, something Sansa never thought that she would see from her rival. Past rival, maybe, if they were now fake dating.

“Of course,” Daenerys’ voice is soft as she moves closer to Sansa. Her hands come up to cup Sansa’s face, nervously at first, then more confidently as she draws Sansa nearer to her body. “In my experience,” she says, her violet eyes never leaving Sansa’s blue irises, “it is easier to simply go for it.”

Daenerys grips Sansa’s chin strongly for a moment to drag her lips down to meet the other woman’s. Her touch softens, however, when Sansa’s own hands move up to surround Daenerys’s face.

Sansa’s experience with kissing is very limited, but she can tell that Daenerys is a good kisser. No, not merely _good_ —an _amazing_ kisser. Her mouth opens for Daenerys, quite unexpectedly, and the other woman’s tongue glides between her lips. She lets herself slide back against the wall, moaning gently in pleasure.

Tender kisses are not something that Sansa knows well—the only kisses she’s had that approached the gentle and loving way Daenerys is kissing her now were from Margaery Tyrell, who had been one of her models, and they had used to make out after shows (for stress relief on Sansa’s part, although she wasn’t sure why Margaery went along with it.) And Margaery had left her ten months before this.

Sansa pulls away as the kiss begins to become more heated, shame colouring her face. “I’m so sorry,” she chokes out, wriggling out from Daenerys’ touches. “I’m so sorry,” she repeats as she backs out of Daenerys’ bathroom. She stumbles downstairs, barefoot, and once she reaches the ground floor she picks up a pair of beaded flat shoes in the hallway. Consciously, she doesn’t know what she’s doing, and her only thought is to get away and out of Daenerys’ house. In this moment, she needs space, a place to calm her thoughts and get herself together. While she likes Daenerys better than she thought she would, her house is simply not that place, particularly not with the memory of the other woman’s kisses hidden within her smeared lipstick. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> expect the next chapter soon! thanks for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> leave a kudos/comment if you enjoyed please, i thrive off them!


End file.
